Not Your Happy Ending
by Hatse
Summary: A collection of unrelated one-shots that will span all installments of the Dragon Age game, past and future. To be updated whenever the muse is a melancholic mood, or wants something darker. Re-edited, re-worked, and reposted. Step right inside, and don't forget your tissues. Various pairings, angst, tragedy and hurt. Rating is for character deaths and general unpleasant feels.
1. Fenris and Hawke

**Reposted, edited, and I think, perfected. Reposting everything after my account was deleted is a pain in the nether regions, and my mood is dark, to say the least, so I tat off with this series, that actually has no naughty bits in it, and is safe -I hope- to repost.**

**My eternal gratitude to all of you that have stood by my side through all this. I love you all. **

**The Queen will be back. That I promise.**

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><p><strong>warnings: character death, obtuse Fenris.<strong>

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><p>Fenris scowled at the short, rotund bartender. "What do you mean, someone wants to meet me?"<p>

The man continued polishing the glass with a ratty, dirty old rag. "A lad came in, asking about someone of your description. Said he'd be at the Dead Man's Crossing tavern at noon, if you were interested."

"I am not."

The bartender chuckled. "He knew you might say that. He told me to tell you '_I am what magic touched that it didn't spoil_' if you did."

Fenris froze in place. It couldn't be.

"_I guess there is no easy way to say this, so I'll just say it: I'm pregnant." Hawke said, twisting her hands nervously on her lap._

"_Congratulations."_

"_It's yours," her eyes pleaded with him to look at her, but he resisted. Cold dread had spread through him at her words; blind panic. For a moment, the thought of her carrying his child spread joy and pride through him, but it was only for a moment. A half-elven child of a mage. A child out of wedlock, with anough magic talen flowing through its veins to set fire to the entire world; and any child of Hawke's probably would. A bastard mage- **another** bastard mage. _

"_I am well aware," he finally spat. "But I want nothing to do with it."_

Seventeen years had passed since that day. Seventeen years, since the day he had walked out, his every step leaden with guild. But he could not be a father to a half-elven baby, one who would probably end up being a mage. He could not stay and play house with Hawke. He could not-_would not_- let himself love her. He would not shackle himself to her- a powerful mage, one that threatened to enslave him just as surely as any collar could.

Her tear drenched eyes as was leaving had remained with him all these years; his nightmares were haunted by them. Sad, heartbroken eyes, brimming with tears, and her almost inaudible whisper.

"_Fenris, please don't go. I love you. Stay with me, stay with us."_

He had left the city of chains that very night. It had broken what was left of his heart, but he had, not once looking back.

He didn't trust her; not what she was, not what she said, not what she professed to feel about him. He just couldn't. He couldn't look over what she was to really appreciate who she was. For his she wouldalways be one thing, and one thing only, first and foremost: a mage.

News came to him in the years that followed, as he drifted from place to place, of Hawke being named Champion of Kirkwall after foiling a Qunari invasion. News arrived to him after some time, a letter by Varric, informing him that Danarius had looked for him in Kirkwall and had been 'dealt of by Hawke'. The dwarf had even sent him a letter by his long lost sister; and so he'd earned a bit of his past: his given name before the markings, the name of his mother. His hared for mages didn't abate, though, far from it, it became even greater with another proof of what they had taken from him.

He never answered Varric's letter, not even looking at it a second time, not even stopping to acknowledge the sentence "Hawke misses you. She's still waiting, Elf, what will it be now?" As the parchment had slowly blackened and burned in the fire, Fenris stubborny ignored the feeling of loss gnawing at his insides and tried to convince himself that he was glad his last tie to her was finally severed.

Then, afew years later, the world had exploded into chaos; the rumours had it that it had been Anders that had started the Mage Rebellion, by blowing up the Chantry, assisted by his lover, the Champion of Kirkwall, Marian Hawke. Posters carrying sketches of their faces and rewards that kept climbing higher and higher had appeared all over Thedas.

But there had been no talk of her ever having a child so Fenris had assumed she'd gotten rid of it. He tried very hard not to think why it made him so very incredibly angry to imagine her running to her mage lover, and him giving her a potion. He didn't examine his feelings closely, afraid he would discover jealousy hiding underneatht the anger; she had taken up with Anders.

But what business was it of his that the healer had taken his leftovers?

In the years that had passed, he'd come across bounty hunters that were looking for her; they had all assumed he would know of her whereabouts. Sebastian had once tried to hire him to lead the search for her and Anders, but he had refused.

He might not have loved her, but he never wished her any harm.

Sometimes...sometimes, after a particular gruelling fight, or a cold, frigid night camping out on the open, he would remember her, allowing himself to dredge up fond memories; her smile, radiant after a fight. The way she blew on his fingers once to warm them when they had been camping on the Wounded Coast. Her girly laughter, which had the ability to warm his insides like warm spiked cider. Her smell, the taste of her skin, slicked with sweat and quaking under his mouth. The special way she had of saying his name, as if just the sound of it had brought her joy.

He had refused to love her, back then, had resisted letting his walls down, had ruthlessly and savagely suppressed any tender feelings her easy, open affection had sparked in his heart. He had carved a nice little pigeonhole of prejudice and tucked her in there: mage, monster, seductress.

He hadn't let himself love her.

Had he?

No, no he hadn't. He had managed to walk away from her tear drenched eyes, he had not been captured by the false promise of her love. He had not been enslaved to yet another mage, one that used chains of sweet love words and tender touches, that caused him pain by not inflicting any, confusing him to no end. He had not let himself be fooled, he had remained free.

What if sometimes he thought of what might have been if he had been a different kind of man? What if he grew irrationally angry at the thought that she had taken up with the abomination after he had left? What if his own words rang into every one of his nightmares?

"_I want nothing to do with it."_

Apparently, _it _now wanted something to do with him, because he could think of no other lad that could possibly know these words than the child he'd thought Hawke had gotten rid of.

It was a _he_, then, and would now be...what? Sixteen?

He had a son.

He looked up at the pale winter sun...a half an hour or so to noon. Swearing to himself, he quickened his pace, handing to the Dead Man's Crossing. He didn't want to go. Maker, he knew he would hear nothing good about himself, but he couldn't help it...that night...he could still remember it as if it had been yesterday. If a child had come of it, if she hadn't gotten rid of it, _him_, he needed to know.

_I want nothing to do with it_. But it was a _he_ now, and Fenris felt morbidly curious: what, _who_, had he abandoned all these years ago?

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><p>He entered the tavern and blinked a few times to help his eyes adjust to the gloom in the dimly lit tavern. The patrons in the tables fell silent for a moment, accessing him for potential danger, then shrugged and carried on with their conversations and their ales.<p>

He let his gaze wonder around the tavern, and spotted a hooded figure in one of the tables farther away, tucked into a nook by the wall. A hand lifted a mug of ale, and he could see that the hand had a white-knuckled grip on the mug. So. That was _him_.

Fenris made his way to the table, quaking inside, but eerily composed on the surface. The hood slid back, and a young face turned up to look at him.

Fenris drew in a sharp breath and then held it, fighting against the shock.

His own eyes were gazing at him out from a youthful, handsome face, shaded by the same pitch black hair that Hawke had sported, long and tied back with a leather strap. Hawke's mouth; Hawke's chin, Hawke's nose, Fenris' eyes. That mouth that was so like the woman's he had once known so intimately rose up on one corner; a wry, self-mocking smile.

"Well, well. Father. So nice to finally meet you."

His voice. Maker, the lad had his voice, a bit thinner, a bit more childish, not fully matured into his own gravely baritone yet. But it was definitely his own voice.

He took a seat without even looking, his gaze –round eyed and shocked- still on the lad's face. "What is your name?" he managed to ask, his eyes still trailing over the boy's face, scrutinizing every little detail, finding more and more similarities with the woman he had once abandoned. There. That little dimple when he smiled; that was Hawke's too.

The lad looked away then his wry, sarcastic smile grew a bit larger. "Leto Wolfgang Hawke," he drawled. "People call me Wolf."

Fenris drew back, a shocked gasp escaping him. "She named you after me?"

Wolf's smile turned bitter. "Why not? You are my sire, aren't you?" he then pursed his lips and looked at his mug, a sad look suddenly shading his eyes. "Wolfgang was Anders' real name, the one he had before the Circle. Ironic, isn't it? It means 'the path of the wolf'...both my fathers were named after wolves. So Wolf seemed appropriate."

Fenris tensed up. "Both your fathers?"

The lad's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me. Dad's name was Wolfgang. You are nothing to me."

He rose up to leave and Fenris felt a small twinge of alarm slash through him; he hadn't gotten the answers to the questions he had yet. He grabbed the arm the boy extended to toss some coins on the table.

Wolf looked at the hand that was touching him with barely veiled contempt and under the accusation in those green eyes, Fenris had to pull back.

"Where is your mother?"

A small flash of pain. "When dad got his Calling, she went with him, less than a year ago. She refused to let him face the deep on his own. She is dead, as is my dad."

Fenris fell back, the thought of Hawke not being a part of this world any more a wound on his very soul. For the first time in years, his heart gave a painful lurch and grief flooded him... she was dead. She had followed Anders to his death.

"Why the heartbroken look?" Wolf sneered. "You left her. You left us both. All my life I had been wondering...I asked her time and time again; why had my father not wanted me? And all she ever said was that you were a good man, but that loved scared you."

The young boy's lip curled in contempt.

"Pathetic, if you ask me."

Anger rose like a wave inside of Fenris. "Is that why you wanted to see me? To taunt me?"

The boy tilted his head to the side –another one of Hawke's trademark moves- and regarded him with nothing more than mild contempt. "No," he finally said before a small smile curled his lips, sad and self-mocking. "I was just curious about you. Curious to see if what she said about you was true." He appraised Fenris one last time. "I see nothing of the man she said was brave and good and kind. She was a fool, my poor mother. A fool for loving you. All I see is a coward." He then pointed to a sack he had left by his seat. "These are mother's journals. I read them after she died...and since most of them are addressed to you, I though you should read them."

He leaned towards Fenris and the older man was taken aback by the hate he could see flashing in Wolf's eyes for a moment. "She loved you till the moment she died. She loved my father, make no mistake, but she never forgot you; you were always in her thoughts and in her heart. Read them." He pointed to the journals again.

"That is my revenge for leaving me, and her."

And then he turned and in a flash, he was out of the tavern, and out of Fenris life. He thought he saw a great sword strapped into the lad's back before he disappeared, and his mouth curled a little into a sad, self-deprecating grin ; a warrior then. Not a mage like he had feared.

He reached for the sack of books and pulled it to himself, then emptied the contents on the table. Blindly reaching for the newest looking one of them, he leafed through it.

_We leave tomorrow_, the last entry said. _I will not leave Anders alone in the dark he fears so much, I will not abandon him, just like he stayed by my side all these years, raising my son as if he was his flesh and blood. I will not desert the man I have come to love; even if it means my boy will be left all alone. He is a strong, brave young man, and he will be alright. _

_Farewell, my son. Be strong. Be good. Be honest. Live, love, hope; as often and as wholeheartedly as you possibly can. Make mistakes, then correct them. Get angry, fight, defend those who are less fortunate than you. Be the man you dad raised you to be and the man your father could have been. _

_Fenris, you would have been proud of the son I gave you, even if you never wanted him._

_I wonder where you are. I wonder if you might ever meet the amazing young man we made that night. I wonder if you ever think of me...if the news of my death will make you sad, even for a second. I wonder...and hope, and dream that we might meet again one day, in another life...futile, useless practices that never did me any good._

_I love you both, my wolves, and will always do._

Fenris closed the book, then put it back into the sack and took to his feet. He felt...numb. Something inside him had cracked, and ice was pouring into his soul; he felt blessedly chilled, unable to think, unable to do anything than mechanically walk back to his rented little cottage.

He spent the night reading her journals, in order, from her grief and pain when he had left, to the joyous moment of his son's birth.

_Fenris, he is so beautiful. I wish you could see him, I wish you wanted to see him. He has your eyes. His toes are so small and perfect...he is so perfect. How can you not want him? He is such a little miracle._

_I have named him Leto Wolfgang Hawke. You are probably wondering about his middle name...Anders delivered him, and saved my life. There was so much blood, so much pain. I cried for you, called your name till my voice broke. You never came; but Anders was there. He saved me, and asked if he could decide the baby's middle name. I accepted; something in me died a little when I saw the way he was holding him, totally in love, with tender, shaking hands, his eyes shining with awe and wonder._

_It should have been you. Damn you, Fenris. It should have been you, you blighted fool. _

_Damn you. Why can't I stop loving you?_

Then Anders had gotten into her life, and he had to grit his teeth reading about it, feeling pangs of jealousy eating away at his gut.

_He is a gentle man, and he loves me. Forgive me Fenris, but I could stand being alone no more...I waited for you, but you never came back. Leto calls him daddy. For his shake, for the sake of the baby you didn't want, I will have Anders in my life; and for my sake too. I have fallen in love with him; he is gentle, caring, good to me, makes me feel desired and loved. I can wait for you no longer. You are not coming back...I have finally accepted it._

Tears stains on the pages. Anger when Justice used Anders to blow up the Chantry. Despair when they had to run, a young child with them, hunted from city to city until they had found a quiet little village in Felelden to hide.

Wolf's first tooth, his first lessons, his tears when some boys called him a filthy half-breed. Tales of the little boy's antics, tales of her and Anders' adventures.

And always, all over her journals, her love for him. Her desire to see him again, even from a distance. His name on her lips and in her thoughts, her shame at lying with one man and thinking of another. Anders' sadness; he had always known.

Fenris read them all, one after the other, and ached.

It appeared he had been lying to himself all this time; he had loved Hawke after all. And now...now she was dead, and his son hated him.

He reread the passage when Leto had demanded not to be called like that, when he chose the nickname Wolf for himself. When he had screamed to his dad that he hated the man who had sired him and ran off in the woods. Hawke's tears that had stained the page.

_I didn't want hate to fester in his heart as well, Fenris. Look what it did to you._

Morning had already come when he raised his head from the pages, his eyes red and hurting, his neck creaking. He looked to the ceiling of his little ramshackle cottage and admitted to himself he had been wrong, that he had loved her, that he should have stayed, that he had been a blind, stupid fool. Regret for the things he had lost charred his heart, reducing it to ash. A whole life he could have spend with her, presents given him that he had tossed away; a son, a life, love, happiness. He had been too blind to see; too blind to understand.

He whispered her name, whispered how sorry he was, hoping that she could hear him, wherever she now was.

And cried.


	2. Mahariel and Alistair

**The first time I played DA:O it was with a Dalish elf, and of course I romanced Alistair. When he dumped my Warden I was shocked. No, no, I wasn't shocked, I was heartbroken. I sat there looking at the screen, tears running down my face, screaming "WHY, ALISTAIR, WHY?**

**Yeah, laugh at me. But I know it happened to most of you as well.**

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><p><strong>Warnings: character death<strong>

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><p>She stood on the crest of the hill, feeling numb and frozen. Lifting a hand to the pale spring sun she wondered: was she now invisible to the rays of the sun? She felt cold, chilled, as if nothing could warm her. Did even the sun reject her, recoiling from her like she was something disgusting, something that was suited to darkness and coldness alone?<p>

A soft breeze of air, balmy and fragrant, blew past her, lifting her pitch black hair for just an instance, then letting it drop again.

For some ridiculous, illogical reason, she even saw that as rejection.

For so long now she had been soaring so high, carried to lofty heights, flying into space on invisible wings of false promises- only to be left to plummet to the ground. Helplessly watching the ground get closer and closer, she knew the fall would break her. And the man she had counted on to be there to catch her...had let her drop.

_Alistair. I loved you. And you let me fall._

Tears flooded in her eyes, but she stubbornly refused to let them trail down her face, blinking furiously. She was not good enough for the future King of Ferelden, a king she herself had put on the throne. She wasn't good enough to stand by his side on account of her blood- it was elven, and it was tainted. It was infertile_. _Three strikes against her.

But she knew...she just knew. If he loved her, just a little, he could have fought for her. He could have done something, _anything_, other than stand in front of her, bedazzling in that gilded armour, and tell her it was over.

She clenched her fists and her eyes closed; she was only good enough to fuck. It hadn't mattered that she was an elf when she had given herself to him, her first, her only. It had never mattered when he'd come to her for comfort, when she'd carried the weight of all the difficult decisions for him. It'd never counted for anything that her ears were pointed; he'd still fed them the same lies that men gave women from the beginning of time_; I love you, I want us to be together forever, marry me after the Blight_.

Soaring on artificial winds, glued together by moonlight and rainbows. How naïve of her. How utterly stupid. She should have realised there was never any future for them when he'd told her he was a prince. She should have known and stepped back while her heart was still hers to command.

The silly little poor peasant girl might get Prince Charming at the end in fairytales; but this –her life- was not a fairytale. There would be no happily ever after for her.

Tomorrow she would die.

She had been happy despite the constant fighting, despite the hardships. She had taken his offered promises of love and wallowed in them like a child in a warm shallow stream. A sad smile crossed her face- she had been happy. She had been happy. She had been. She had.

Once more she tried to convince herself that the pain was feeling now was worth it, because damn it, _damn it all to the Void_, she had been happy, even for a little while, even if it didn't last.

And tomorrow she would die.

She didn't want to breathe her last mouthful of air a bitter woman, her heart charred by despair; she didn't want to die this shell of a woman she had become. She wanted to die with the sun burnishing her green eyes to emerald, her smile blinding, her love still true, still alive.

She didn't want her last thoughts out of this world to be of betrayal and disappointment; Creators, she sought to remember the good times, the love and comfort, the silvery, sparkling pleasure of a soft touch on her flesh, the gentle thrill of a chaste kiss, the boyish smile that had made her heart stumble.

She would die tomorrow; she had given Ferelden a King, and in the process she had lost everything. Her life was all that was left of her to give; she would die for her liege. She would rather have died for the man she loved-but that man didn't exist. That man had been a lie. That man had probably never loved her. That man had discarded her like used goods. She would die for King Alistair Therein – but she had loved Ali, her Ali-bear, the flustered ex-templar, the lonely Chantry raised orphan. She had made her Ali a king, and now she was going to pay the price, by the Dread Wolf, she had already paid the price.

Creators, she didn't want to die.

She didn't want to live either.

With a sigh, she turned back and walked down the hill, the blond-haired elven shadow that had been trailing after her all these days just a few steps behind. Zevran had been there when Morrigan had made her offer; he had been there when she had rejected it. He had been there –a rock to lean on- when she had first realised she could now count the rest of her life in hours and minutes and seconds.

Zevran was always there. A deep well of pain that she couldn't deal with, because in loving one man she had not only destroyed her own heart but broken another's, as well.

Tomorrow...tomorrow she would die. Alistair would live a live he dreaded, fulfil a role he despised. And Zevran had promised to help keep the man she loved safe.

Sacrifices all around.

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><p>She was dead. She was dead. Dead, dead, dead. The word repeated itself in his mind, until the syllables meant nothing, they were just jumbled sound, no import, no substance.<p>

Deadeadeadeadeadead.

Like gibberish. Like a mind that had been shocked out of its senses, screeching as it rocked back and forth to console itself like a forlorn child. How could she be dead? How could her brilliant soul been snuffed out? Travesties like that didn't happen, no sane god would have allowed it.

His soul rebelled, his senses reeled. He needed to see for himself. He needed to make sure. She could not be gone. She couldn't. _Maker, make her be alive_.

A new chant started in his mind, one of prayer and bargaining. _Maker, make her be alive, and I swear, I will do whatever you want. I will never think blasphemous thoughts again. I will never sin. Maker, I'll even give up cheese._

That's why he run, that's why he stormed through the streets, pushing past rejoicing throngs of soldiers, bloodied and covered in gore, holding on to each other and crying like children being woken from a terrible nightmare to see that the sun had risen again, the monsters had retreated, life could once more begin.

The blond assassin was already there when he pushed through the crowds, climbed the countless stairs, reached the burned, charred corpse of the Archdemon. He had a tiny, broken form cradled in his arms, a hand smoothing down an alabaster cheek.

Anger rose to crash like a giant black wave. He had no right to touch his Warden. He had no right to touch his woman.

He jerked her body from the assassins arms, before he realised that was all that was left of her-her body. An empty, broken shell of the woman he loved.

Zevran twisted the knife.

"She said to tell you that she loved you, and that she wishes you happiness; may you find a suitable queen and spawn many little royal heirs," the Antivan's voice was cold, ruthless, vindictive, delivering his words as he would the crippling, well placed thrust of his daggers to a victim he might want to kill –but slowly, and painfully. "She told me to give you this," he thrust something by Alistair's feet, "And tell you that your 'love'," he spat the word with derision, "was just like it: something beautiful amongst all this death. Too bad it wilted. Too bad it was doomed from the start."

Alistair was left there, staring at the brown, wilted corpse of the flower he had given her to show her his love, without really looking at it.

He threw his head back and howled his pain, just once, a long scream of fury, and pain and shame-it ended in a keening, whimpering cry and then the tears came.

He was still crying when they took her out of his arms, when someone led him down the stairs by the hand, too shocked and frozen by grief to acknowledge anyone.

The city, the country, the whole world celebrated for days; the Blight was over before it even had begun. One woman, a Dalish elf, had singlehandedly defeated it, pushed the accursed disease back, killed the big, bad monster.

But Alistair remained in his room, and the people closest to him had to hear his sobs, had to cringe and exchange worried looks when he had thrashed the room and wondered if his grief had maddened him when he ordered all the rose bushes in the city of Denerim to be pulled out.

But, eventually, life went on. He was now the King, and he could not stay in his room forever. He emerged one day, freshly washed and with a determined gleam in his eye, and set about to become the best King that Ferelden had ever had- just because she had believed he could, and he didn't want to let her down. Not again.

In the years to come, he did find a queen. He did sire two sons and a daughter. He did become the rightful, just ruler she had seen in him.

Ferelden had prospered.

But he never smiled again-not once. That boyish, clownish smile never again crossed his face.

And when the time came for him to go to his Calling, and for his eldest son, Duncan, to succeed him, the name he left behind was Alistair Therein, The Sad King.


	3. Hawke

Hawke's every step was leaden, weighted down by loss. He never thought he could hurt so much, miss another living being so much. Ache so much.

He had lost his baby brother on the way to Kirkwall; his baby sister in the Deep Roads; his mother to that deranged blood mage that went around killing people in the name of love.

Everything he ever touched turned to ashes. Everything he ever loved was taken from him, or left him, walking out on him in the middle of the night, like that cruel elf had done, breaking his heart into splinters of ice and glass. If that wasn't a statement from the Maker, telling him that he was unworthy of love, then he didn't know what it was.

A ha-ha-in-your-face-buster, perhaps... The Maker's sense of humour sucked.

Hawke took another deep breath, then straightened and tossed the shovel to the side. He couldn't bear seeing the flames take him, his last friend, the last of his family. This shallow grave would have to do.

He wiped the sweat off his face with a corded forearm, then sat at the edge of the grave and took a few gulps of water from his silver flask.

"Well, old friend," he addressed the corpse next to him. "It was an adventure, wasn't it?"

But, of course, corpses never talked back, not that this one would, even when life coursed through that strong body, that was now just a pile of flesh, already starting to grow cold.

Hawke sighed. He had never felt so alone, so desperately, dreadfully lonely before. He spared another look to the body laying on its side. He had never betrayed him. Never let him down. Never denied him affection. Never questioned him.

He had died protecting him.

It was ironic; after everything, all the losses, all the death and destruction in his life, the first tears he was shedding where now...

With his dead dog on his side.

He angrily wiped the moisture from his eyes, then heaved the dead body of his mabari and lowered him slowly down the hole; boy, he was heavy. A beast of a dog, a killing machine, a wardog. But all he could remember was as slobbering, adorably awkward puppy that weaved in and out of his feet and looked at him as if the sun rose in his eyes-for his dog, maybe it did.

He started covering the dog up, feeling like ten kinds of fool. Maker, he couldn't stop crying. He couldn't draw breath. He had lost so much over these years, and never broke, never despaired; why was the loss of an animal affecting him like this?

When he finished covering the dog up, he straightened the ground. Taking his dagger out of his belt, he found a piece of wood and started carving on the smooth side, all the while sobbing – he just couldn't stop. He felt so embarrassed. But he couldn't stop.

He got up and straightened his clothes, then shoved the marker in the still soft ground, looked at it one last time, then turned around and left- alone, totally alone. No woof following him. No slobbering, panting breath dogging his footsteps. No short tail swishing as it wiggled.

The marker on the grave wrote just two words:

Best friend.


	4. Sebastian and Anders

**This is not sad so much- dark would better describe it.**

**note: the Ancient Greek believed that disregardng the gods, and trying to behave as a god yourself was the ultimate sin: HUBRIS. Commiting hubris always led to the gods' punishment, nemesis. **

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><p><strong>Trigger warnings: torture, mentions of rape.<strong>

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><p>"We have captured him, my Lord."<p>

The Prince of Starkhaven, Sebastian Vael, raised his head and looked at the armed man. He blinked then rubbed his neck; this sitting life was killing him.

"Who?" he absentmindedly asked.

"The apostate, my Lord. The one known as 'The Bane of Kirkwall'..." the man took a step back at the look of blind fury that darkened the Prince's face. He raised his head, his lips thinned into a bitter line, his whole body tensed like a bow.

"Anders? Ye have Anders?"

The man nodded. It was said that there was not a single person that the usually mild-mannered Prince reviled more than the notorious mage- and it was obviously true, if the dark, hate-filled look on the Prince's face was any indication.

He led the young Vael down to the dungeon, biting his lip a bit as they went. They had gagged and bound the mage, and tousled him up a little; the Prince would easily believe there had been a battle.

Maker knew lying didn't sit well with him, but the bounty was a lot of money and he –and the rest of the men in his company- had wee ones to feed.

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><p>Sebastian stood for the longest time in front of Anders, looking him over. He was bound and a filthy rag was gagging him. He looked older, thinner, his once scraggly stubble a full grown beard now, streaked with grey, as was his hair. It looked alien on his face, like this was a wise, harmless old man, not one that had killed hundreds and callously labelled his crime a necessary action.<p>

He remembered back to the last time he had seen Anders, when he was so full of fire, so militant, barely apologising for what he had done. He remembered the bind fury that had blinded him when Hawke had let the murderer in front of him walk free. 143 people had died n the Chantry explosion. Amongst them, at least 20 were children. They had found Elthina's body under a fallen marble statue, and given her a proper pyre, but in the days that followed, among the chaos and destruction, many of the dead in the Chantry had gone unclaimed. What Sebastian could recall best of everything was the stench of death and decay this man in front of him had left in his wake.

Hawke had barely survived the battle in the Gallows, and only a handful of mages had made it out alive. Not that Sebastian cared. Hawke had apologised many times since then, but for him, Gareth had stopped being a friend the minute he'd let Anders walk away unpunished.

He took a deep breath. Maker, how he wanted to punch the mage in the face. How he wanted to kick him and scream and rage.

His Guard Captain appeared, followed by the Master Gaoler.

Without taking his eyes off the mage's face, he gave instructions for the necessary bindings to be set in place, explained the man's unique circumstances to the other two men, all the while feeling that wave of disgust and antipathy inside him; Anders just stood there, and looked at him with resigned, emotionless eyes. Sebastian directed his Guard Captain to pay the men that had captured the abomination generously, and then dismissed their captain. His Gaelor looked to the mage, then at his men waiting in the shadows of the dungeon.

"What do ye want done with him, my Lord?"

With one last look of contempt and rage, Sebastian turned his back on Anders. "Do what ye will, other than kill him. I want him alive for when the Seekers come."

He was already going up the stairs when Anders' eyes widened in fear and despair; the men in the dungeon- torturers, executioners- circled him like a pack of wolves.

He tried calling out to the Prince, but he was gagged, and a knee suddenly lodged into his groin, bringing him to the ground.

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><p>Sebastian raised the fluted glass to his lips, sipping slowly, enjoying the heady taste of the Orlesian wine. In the Great Hall before him, nobles mingled, drank and laughed their little simpering laughs, enjoying his food and drink. He watched some of the women cast him openly flirtatious looks and tried very hard not to wince. The rumour going around had been that the Prince of Starkhaven was looking for a wife and the nobility of the Free Marches had amassed like a swarm of locust, each family hoping that the dolled up daughters they dragged behind them would catch his eye.<p>

He was standing by the door, so when a faint echo of an agonised scream reached his ears, he frowned, and looked towards the corridor. A faint cry, a keening shriek, a name. "Sebastian!" the voice cried. "Sebastian, please!"

The prince of Starkhaven's face hardened, and stepping back into the Great Hall, he motioned for the musicians to play louder. The voice was drowned, and so was the little twinge of guilt he'd felt at hearing it. Moving closer to the throngs of nobles, he signalled out a few attractive lasses and asked the first of them for a dance, smiling charmingly.

* * *

><p>"I heard that if you cut off a mage's hands, they can't use magic."<p>

"The Prince said to keep him alive."

"It's just his hands. We'll burn the wound afterwards. He'll still be alive."

A soft, resigned cry left the bloodied lips of the man writhing on the floor, among his own blood and other fluids. "Sebastian...please...Seb. Help me."

A kick landed against his already broken ribs, making him groan; he had screamed so much already, he couldn't make another sound; his throat was closed, his mouth parched. He opened his eyes to see one of his torturers approaching him with a wicked looking hatchet in his hands, and tried to summon up his magic to resist. Nothing happened. His mana was totally depleted, although he had only used it to heal himself after...after what they had done to him. Justice didn't stir, just like he hadn't in months, not since the Chantry had been destroyed.

He closed his eyes and waited. No one was coming to his aid, and justice wasn't on his side.

His mind went blank as the hatchet dropped.

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><p>Sebastian looked at the man standing in front of him with narrowed eyes, trying to remember who he was. Then it hit him, the captain of the group of men that had captured Anders.<p>

"Aye, I remember ye,"" he said, "Ye're the one that captured the Bane of Kirkwall."

The man fidgeted a bit at that, then his eyes turned downwards. "About that, my lord..." he hesitated, then removed a large bag of coins from his pack and let it on the table. "It's all here my Lord. Every single piece of copper."

Sebastian was taken aback. "Ye're returning my money? Why?"

The man actually looked more embarrassed. "We don't deserve it my lord. We didn't capture the mage. He gave himself in, and was very willing to do so. He actually sought us out, not the other way around."

"WHAT?"

"He said he needed to atone for his crime, and asked that we should bring him to you. He said he wanted to apologise," the man looked at the bag of coins lovingly. "We have wee ones to feed, all of us, and thought we wouldn't get paid if we told you he surrendered. So...we lied. But...It didn't sit well with me...with all of us. So here it is, all returned."

Sebastian felt a cold dread spread through him. "The mage told you he wanted to apologise?"

"He did my lord. He said he had wronged a great deal of people, but none more than you." A look of curiosity lit up the man's eyes. "Did he, after all, my Lord?"

Sebastian looked stricken. "I never gave him the chance."

The Seekers arrived for Anders the next day, and a sleepless, pale Sebastian had accepted their praise and thanks, cringing inside, before leading them down to the dungeons. Those screams he had heard that night...that pleading voice. Maker. When had he become such a monster, to hear a man's pained cries, to know that man was being tortured and do nothing but dance and drink the night away? When had he become so callous, so unfeeling?

Three times he had made it to the dungeon door during the night- not once, not twice. And every single time, he hadn't been able to go inside, to see with his own eyes the evidence of how low his principles had fallen.

He stood outside the dungeons door now, shaking like a dog as the Seekers filed past him. He felt ashamed, so ashamed of himself. He had let Anders be tortured; where was his faith? Where was his believe in the Maker? Where was his mercy, his compassion?

_The one who repents, who has faith,  
>Unshaken by the darkness of the world,<br>She shall know true peace._

Anders had come to apologise, and he had never given him the chance. He had repented for his crime, and he had not been allowed to show it.

Suddenly, a Seeker stumbled out of the dungeon, and emptied his stomach in a corner, pale and shaken, and Sebastian was frozen in fear; what had been done to Anders?

Maker, what had _he_ allowed to be done to Anders?

The Seekers' leader came out of the dungeon, cast one look at his comrade in the corner and then turned her dark, condemning eyes to Sebastian. A frown was marring her attractive features, a deeply disappointed, disapproving expression.

Two seekers appeared behind her, carrying a bloodied, nearly unrecognisable body between them.

"Is he...?" Sebastian felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

"No. But I'm sure he wishes he were."

A hand flew to Sebastian's mouth to stifle a cry of horror. The mage's hands had been cut off, bloody stubs left to drip blood the front of his robes. The Seeker that had approached him, holding a pair of manacles looked at him then at the shackles in his hands, then at the mage's missing limbs.

"It won't be necessary," Their leader said softly. "He won't resist. I dare say he looked almost relieved to see us."

"What will happen to him?" Sebastian asked, fighting the revulsion and horror at what had been done to the mage. What he had allowed to be done to the mage. What he had done to the mage; it was by his order that he had been tortured, it had been his indifference that had allowed this to take place.

Tears flooded his eyes as he remembered the times those talented hands had healed them all, Sebastian included, how many times those hands had soothed and relieved aches, how many times a worried parent kissed those missing hands in thanks for the saved life of his child. Guilt and shame flooded his soul; regret clenched around his soul like a vicious, steel-gauntleted fist. The same hands had placed the bomb that had ended so many lives, that had started a war...had killed the woman Sebastian respected and loved like a mother. He should be feeling vindicated, he should be feeling as justice had been server.

But this was not justice, this was vengeance.

In his ire, Sebastian had done nothing different than the spirit that had urged Anders on.

One word echoed in Sebastian's head as he contemplated that believing he was doing the Maker's work, he had tortured and maimed a man that had come to apologise, and that word was hubris.

They took Anders away, leading him by the elbow –carefully, almost tenderly. Sebastian stood in the gate for the longest time, watching as the group diminished in the distance, then staring at the spot they had disappeared into the horizon. Anders had looked back once, his face vacant, his eyes devoid of life. He hadn't said a word, hadn't even looked at Sebastian. There was a quiet and resigned dignity in his stance, in the way he stood with his shoulders straight even as his body shook in pain.

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><p>Later, Sebastian punished the men that had raped, tortured and maimed Anders, although he knew it was himself he should be punishing. He kept thinking of the mage for many years to come, wondering of his fate, aching to know what had happened to him. No word was ever heard of him again, not until Sebastian met with Hawke by accident, during a trip to Orlais. The former champion of Kirkwall had looked at him with cold disdain when he'd asked, then spit at his feet in utter distrust.<p>

"He's dead, of course," he said. "He begged the Seekers to kill him. They had more mercy than you."

When Sebastian finally got married, his first child was born dead, and the second died a babe, from a sudden fever. Sebastian had prayed for forgiveness, taking it as a sign he had lost the Maker's favour –if he ever had it. His wife was the next one to die, in childbirth, granting him an heir, a handsome young boy that Sebastian adored. It seemed that he had finally been forgiven, that the 'Vael curse' was finally lifted.

And then, one day, his son had a fight with another boy, and fire had leapt out of his fingers. Sebastian cried as the templars came to take his baby boy away, and the same night, the whole castle heard him as he stood on the battlements, shouting out to the skies, raging as like a man gone mad.

"I'm sorry!" he cried to the empty skies. "Do you hear me, Anders? I'm sorry! What else do ye want of me?"

The people underneath cringed at the despair in their Prince's voice then shook their heads and tightened their lips in sympathy as he fell to his knees and cried.

"Maker. I'm sorry. Haven't I paid enough? I'm sorry."

But the sky didn't reply, and the Maker sent no sign. His apology was too late, and altogether useless. He knew that- he knew there was no Maker that could help him, to hear his pleas.

Sebastian had finally lost his faith.

And when the Vael curse claimed him as well, in the form of a gruesome, lingering illness, he didn't begrudge his fate, or plead for his life...what for? He had nothing else to live for.

At least, if there really was a second chance at life, an afterlife of any sort, he could apologise in person.

It was about time.


	5. Merrill and M Hawke

**I have never left reviews unanswered before...it shames me deepl, but i simply cannot bring myself to do so. It hurts me so much, to read people's reviews right now; it reminds me too much of all the reviews that were lost, all the readers that had me on their alert lists and now think I suddenly upped and left. I swear I will try harder. **

**thank you all, from the bottom of my heart.**

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><p><strong>Merrill M! Hawke, for Shadowsilver who had been asking me for a Merrill fic forever. I'm sorry this tragic little fic was what the muse came up with, my friend.  
><strong>

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><p><strong>trigger warning: character death.<strong>

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><p>They had been running for months, and were getting pretty good at evading the templars. Merrill's skills –as a Dalish- had proven to be invaluable. Hawke smiled to himself, thinking about it. If it had been just him, the templars wouldn't even have to hunt him down; he'd have eaten some kind of poisonous mushroom or frozen his ass out in the wilderness. They would have come across him one day, dead, and laugh at what a pathetic end the Champion of Kirkwall had found.<p>

Thank the Maker for Merrill. His little Dalish elf had an unnerving sixth sense to find the best route through the forests, to secure them food without even seeming to try, to find the most protected and secure camping site for them to rest. She had proven invaluable- and not just for her survival skills. She was warmth and love and acceptance personified- in a world that was out to get him, she was the one person that looked at him with love and trust in those huge eyes of hers, that accepted him wholeheartedly, that did her best to cheer him up and keep him positive.

He looked up to the rich canopy over his head, a small smile curling his mouth. She had gone to the small stream to wash up. The smile grew a bit larger, a bit smug, as he thought of what he had been doing to her all night to warrant her dipping into a cold stream. He sigh contentedly. His petite elf was a wonder, a ray of sunshine that hunted away any pensive thoughts, a warm fountain of everlasting love that warmed his heart. She was also a sexy little kitten in bed and Hawke couldn't get enough of her. The day he had taken that adorable girl as his wife had been the best on his life, he thought as he thumbed the ring around his finger. The Chantry Sister in that tiny Fereldan village had been shocked- he didn't give a fuck. Merrill was his, his other half, his _better_ half. He was a better person with her beside him...he was happy, even hunted, even on the run.

He was lost in those thoughts, feeling contented and at peace- a dangerous thing, because when the templars burst into the clearing...he didn't have the presence of mind to react. He didn't have time to do anything before he was silenced be a templar smite, his magic lost, other than cry out.

"Merrill! Templars! RUN!"

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><p>Merrill burst into the clearing, shooting bolts out of her staff, to come to a halt abruptly. Her staff lowered, and she gasped.<p>

"Gabriel!" she cried out at the sight of her husband, bound, on his knees, a templar sword pushing his chin high.

"Merrill," Hawke's eyes found hers, despair written in them. "Baby, why did you come back?"

A templar approached her, terrifying behind his mask. "Surrender," he commanded her, "or he dies."

"Leave her alone, you bastard," Hawke shouted. "It's me you want! She has nothing to do with all this!"

The templar barely looked in his direction. "Oh, ho, ho," he sneered at Hawke. "So this little morsel is yours?" he exchanged a look with two other templars, who started flanking Merrill. Her eyes darted from one to the other, her staff held in front of her. Hawke's eyes were huge with horror and she belatedly grasped the sneering, lewd tone in the templars voice. She recoiled, searching frantically for some opening, some way for both her and Hawke to escape. She was an optimistic, cheerful person, but not naïve. She knew what they planned to do to her, what they intended to have Hawke watch, and she was not going to allow it. For _his_ sake more than hers.

"I bet she spreads those legs pretty wide, doesn't she, Champion?" the templar that was holding his sword across Hawke's neck leaned in to sneer in his ear. "Is she a screamer? Will she scream for us?"

Hawke went as still as a statue. "If you fucking touch even a hair on her head..." his voice was tight, thin, dangerous.

"Spare me, son," the templar drew his head back by his hair, making the mage stretch his neck even further on the sword. "It's not like you can stop us."

Hawke's eyes focused on Merrill again- time froze as their gazes caught and held. A wealth of emotion: despair, fear, anger. Love, tenderness, regret. _Go_, his eyes told her. _Save yourself_. _I won't leave you_, her eyes answered. _I'll never leave you_.

In a flash, Merrill's decision was made; she dropped her staff, and drew a dagger instead, then mouthing 'I'm sorry' to Hawke, she slit her wrist.

It had been years since she'd used her blood magic. Hawke had made her promise never to use it again, because he was afraid of losing her to some demon. Unable to convince him she had it under control, in the end she'd relented and promised- and she had kept her word. The monstrosity that Orsino had turned into during the Battle of the Gallows drove the point home more poignantly- Hawke was right. Blood magic was dangerous. It could corrupt and twist even the most gentle of souls, and she had been naïve and arrogant to have thought she might be the exception.

She had forgotten the rush of power, the intoxicating surge of it, the way the very fabric of the Beyond shivered and bent around a mage using their own blood to fuel their magic. This was not the gentle, warm trickle of mana through your body- this was the dark, life-giving and life-taking stream of ichor that fuelled the world. Murky, dangerous, intoxicating. It was the very life-stream of Creation one tapped into when using their own life-force to fuel their magic, and Merrill revelled in it now, let it feed her rage and fear at being helpless in the templars grasp.

A quick spell- barely any power spent, barely any words spoken- and they were hers, thralls under her command.

"Release him," she commanded the templar that was holding Hawke, and she saw her husband rise to his feet, as the templar just stood there, swaying form side to side with a blank look on his face. Hawke used the discarded sword to kill the man with a swift, merciful blow. Blood spilt in a geyser, and Merrill's eyes darkened. Blood. More blood. More power.

A voice whispered in her brain, pleaded, asked for the right to enter. She shook it off, then twirled her staff on the two templars that had fallen to their knees, one to her right, one to her left. Only the man that had commanded her to surrender was still standing, fighting her control spell, but he seemed to be wavering. Hawke's sword stabbed him from behind, and with a gasp, and a fountain of blood that sprayed Merrill straight in the face, he also collapsed.

"Let me in," the voice - mellifluous, soft, cajoling- insisted in her head, purring at the spilt blood. "Let me in, and you can have anything you want."

But Merrill didn't need anything other than to keep the man who was now frantically embracing her safe. She closed her eyes on a sigh as Gabriel's strong arms wrapped around her and squeezed to the point of making her ribs protest. He was safe. Hawke was safe. Creators, she had been so scared.

"My love," Hawke was kissing her face, running his hands all over her to make sure she was safe. "My love...Merrill...Maker, I was so scared. Why did you come back? You should have left. Damn it, Merrill!"

She smiled at him, still battling with the voice in her head, and lay her head on his shoulder. That's when she saw them, three more templars. In a blink of an eye, she saw, and her blood froze in her veins. One of them was releasing am arrow- as in slow motion, she saw it fly, slashing through the air...and straight into Hawke's back.

The tall human in her arms cried out as the arrow hit- Merrill would never forget the sound, that sickening thud followed by the sound of tearing flesh- then he tried to take a few deep breaths. They both looked down together, both of them shocked. The arrow was protruding from the spot on Hawke's chest underneath which his heart was, and Merrill felt a paralyzing wave of fear freeze her body to the very bone, as Hawke slipped to his knees, then toppled to the side, blood bubbling from his mouth.

"Hawke!" She cried out, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood. His heart faltered under her hands. Thud-dub, thud-dub, thud-dub...then slower...thud...dub...then fainter...thud...

"Emma lath...don't leave me!" she sobbed. "Gabriel! Stay with me, my love."

A breath gargled in his throat, then his eyes closed.

"Let me in," the voice said again in her head, "and I'll save him."

She wiped her tears with a hand soaked in Hawke's blood. "Do you promise?" she asked the voice. "Can you save him?"

The templars were just at the end of the clearing, one of them cheering that he'd got Hawke, and shouting orders to the others to get the elf. "Can you?" she asked the voice frantically.

"Let me in," the voice crooned again, but with a hidden note of authority –an triumph-in its tone.

"Save him first," Merrill sighed, resigned to her fate. The first of the templars was almost upon her, jumping over a prone log, his sword drawn. "Save Hawke, and you can enter."

She watched as the templar finally reached her, from her position straddling her husband, her hands trying to stem the flow of blood around the arrow. A wave of energy pulsed from between her clenched hands; it shot inside Hawke, who gasped, his eyes opening wide.

"Enter," she told the demon, then closed her eyes and surrendered.

* * *

><p>Hawke's senses were reeling, agonising pain shooting through his every cell, centred in his chest. He opened his eyes with herculean effort. His vision was foggy, out of focus, and he struggled to concentrate, blinked hard a couple of times, shook his head to clear it. Looking down to see the arrow tip still protruding from his body he wondered why he wasn't dead. He distinctly remembered his body shutting down, the last thoughts he had fading into a tunnel of light. He distinctly remembered Merrill crying over him, feeling sorrow that he was going to leave her, wanting to talk to her but being unable to just lay there and feel his own sense of self-awareness slipping. Why wasn't he dead?<p>

He grabbed the end of the arrow and pulled, a cream escaping him as it slid out of his body; there had never been anything as agonising as feeling the long shaft of the arrow slide through his heart. And yet, he still wasn't dead. He watched in awe as the skin closed around the wound and then looked at the arrow in disbelief. Was he dreaming?

Sound returned to his ears with a roar, and then he heard an inhuman, hideous voice, heard the frantic, desperate yelling of the templars. His eyes focused and then...he wished he _had_ died.

There was an abomination in the clearing, a monstrous, horrifying creature, taller than the tallest man, grotesque as only a creature that looked to be a person turned inside out could be. But there was something sickening familiar about this one, something that chilled Hawke to the very recesses of his soul: one ear, one perfectly pointed ear, dainty, unbearably adorable. It had survived the transformation, and Hawke knew that ear. He had kissed it so many times, had whispered sweet nothings in it, had moaned in it in the throes of passion, had even pinched it playfully in the midst of an argument to get his point across.

"Merrill..." he gasped. "Sweet Maker. Merrill. Oh, my heart! What have you done?"

The abomination's claws sliced through one of the templars, guts and blood flying everywhere, and Hawke closed his eyes to keep the searing, blinding tears in. His sweet Merrill...a monster. An abomination. Maker.

Having dealt with demons himself, and having just seen the evidence of his 'miraculous' recovery, he could swear that his own life was what Merrill had bargained for. He felt such agonising pain go through his heart that it was like a thousand arrows had suddenly pierced it. He wiped his tears, debating what he should do as one of the templars dealt a crippling blow to Merrill...no, not Merrill, to the creature.

His eyes hardening, he rose to his feet, wobbling for a few moments, then finding his balance with nothing more than determination. He readied a freezing spell, and waited for the right opportunity. Maker knew, Merrill wouldn't want him to let her live on like this, she would be appalled at the loss of life the crazed, hideous creature she had been turned on would cause. But that ear...that perfect ear. It mocked him, paralysed him, caused him doubt. If her ear had survived, couldn't something else have remained of her inside this monster? Could she be saved? He had heard of instances where Circle mages had gone into the Fade to release possessed mages; maybe he could do that himself?

Doubt made him falter, and once the last templar fell dead, he just stood there, looking at the monster his wife had turned into, his sweet Merrill, his lovely little elf. When the creature turned on him, at first he continued standing there, frozen in time, watching a bulk of twisted and corrupted flesh rush towards him. He only found himself when those monstrous claws swiped at him, jumping out of the way at the very last moment.

From there on, it was a matter of instinct taking over; an ice prison spell first, the repeated fire blasts, then ice again, then mind blast, until the thing fell dead.

Hawke slumped to his knees looking at nothing but that pointy ear, the only thing of his wife remaining. A voice spoke to him in his voice, soft, melodious. "Let me in," it said, "And I can turn back to how she was."

"SCREW YOU!" Hawke threw his head back and raged, more at himself and the momentary temptation he'd felt than at the voice itself. "Get out of my head! Screw you! I won't let you take me as well! I won't!"

He fell forward, crying softly, cursing. "Merrill..." the sound was agonised, the pain of a soul that has just lost its soul mate, the only thing that gave it purpose. "Merrill."

His hand touched that dainty ear, his fingers shaking wildly. One long lingering caress, a calloused digit tracing the elegant curve; a small scar there, that he knew so well, from when she had decided to pierce her ears only to have him playing with the little golden hoop so much that she had taken the thing off, embarrassed with how much his touch affected her. He closed his eyes not to see it anymore, not to see those happy, carefree memories that were shredding his heart in pieces. Heaving breaths rocked his frame, a scream started building in his throat, but only came out as a keening cry, a mournful moan.

And then he covered his face and did something no one had ever done before:

He cried over the dead body of an abomination.


	6. Loghain

**I have no idea how this originally got into my head...I don't generally like this character, and I would never consider writing him. But, there you have it.**

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><p><strong>Trigger warning: Inept handling of character, haha.<strong>

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><p>The time of reckoning was near, and he knew it. There was a time, in every man's life, when he would have to account for whatever mistakes he had made; the time for him was now, and the place was here.<p>

A weary sigh escaped him, then he squared his shoulders with determination. It was inevitable. What he had done had been necessary, it had meant the continuous survival of what he'd given his all to protect all his life. He'd been right to make those decisions- the difficult decisions no one else had the courage to even think of.

And now he would answer for them, defend himself against those that claimed his actions were a crime, were treason of the highest degree. He would have to stand in front of the very people that threatened what he had poured blood and sweat to preserve and look them in the eye while they accused him of being a monster.

He had nightmares sometimes, some nights, of voices crying out in the distance, of the awful clang and ding of battle, of the grinding sounds that monstrous jaws made as they gnawed on freshly killed human flesh. But it had been necessary. It had been essential. It needed to be done, and he had never cowed in front of difficult decisions.

He picked up his sword, and strapped it on, looking at the edge for a few seconds. He knew this night might end with his death; he felt it in his bones. He wouldn't surrender without a battle; he had spent most of his life fighting, and fighting was how he planned to go down.

A squire came in to inform him the nobles had assembled, and were waiting for him for the proceedings to begin. He took one last calm breath then squared his shoulders, threw his chin back, rehearsed his words for the last time. He wasn't nervous, not at all, but he wanted to be prepared. If this was the last chance to change the course of this country's wildly spiraling path to destruction, he wanted to ready, he wanted to give this his all.

As he had always done for Ferelden.

They passed the chapel on the way to the Great Hall, and obeying a deep, unexpected compulsion in the pit of his belly, he sent the squire ahead, then slipped into the dimly lit little alcove. A statue of Andraste was sitting in a niche in the wall, half-burned candles casting a sickly, pale glow on her fair features.

He stood there, in front of her, wondering why he had felt the need to stop here, and growing impatient with himself for not being able to make his legs move. His eyes wondered around, then came to stop on a pew in front of him. He stretched out one had and touched the wood; there was a name carved there, and his calloused, battle roughened hand traced every letter. He knew this name, knew the golden haired little boy that had nicked the dark, gleaming wood.

"_Cailan," a stern voice made the little boy jump. "Stop fidgeting."_

_The blond boy froze in place under the strict, unflinching gaze of his father. He bowed his head, but not before making eye-contact with the general at his father's side. A small smile peeked on his rosy cheeks, and the usually stoic man could not resist answering it with a wink and a small grin. The boy's smile grew wider, before he bowed his head again and pretended to pray._

_There was a little penknife hidden in the sleeve of his shirt, and after a while, he went back to secretly carving his name on the back of the pew in front of him._

Loghain caressed the carved, childish letters now, and suddenly he knew why he was there, in this old chapel. He closed his eyes on a sigh. Cailan was going to destroy them all, he was going to offer back to the Orlesians what Loghain and his father had bled to win back. He had been a danger to Ferelden. He had been a danger to them all. He was going to surrender this country to the empire that had raped, pillaged and oppressed this country, and Loghain could not –_would not_- allow it.

But he had also been a bright-eyed little boy, all golden hair and dimpled smiles, who had looked on him with wide, hero-worshipping eyes. He had also been a young man that had come to Loghain for advice when he had first started noticing girls. He had been a young, blushing man, who had fumbled though a wedding proposal to Loghain's own daughter, who had smiled after the wedding and told him that he had always considered him a second father, and now he was glad that he really was his son.

Cailan's brother and the ragtag group that he travelled with would soon crash this Landsmeet, and demand explanations for Loghain's actions, accuse him of treason, of having let Cailan die. And while he knew his decision had been made to protect Ferleden from the foolish, naïve delusions of a kind that was obsessed with glory, he also knew...he _had_ left Cailan behind to die. He had abandoned the boy he had watched grow up; he had turned his back and let him be eaten by darkspawn. He had walked away, knowing full well that the monsters behind him were feasting on the flesh of his friends' son.

Had the young man's last moments been painful? Had he wondered why his childhood hero hadn't come to his rescue? Had his eyes widened with his first- and last- true taste of the terrible reality of war?

He bowed his head, and spoke, not the young man he had known so well, but to his long time friend, King Marric, the father of the man he condemned to a grisly end, and of the young man who would soon come asking for Loghain's blood.

"We might meet soon, old friend," he said. "Or I might send another son to you. Either way, I am _not_ sorry. I did what had to be done. I did what was necessary. I would do it again."

The flame of the candle in front of him flickered and then die, making a hissing sound that sounded like disapproval.

"I _would_ do it again," the Hero of River Dane, raised his voice, conviction in his tone, but regret in his heart.

"I would do it again," he repeated. "You would too."

He paused, caressed the childish scribble on the back of the pew in front of him again, then drew his sword and saluted the ghosts of his past, that were so powerful in this place.

"For Ferelden!" he just said, then sheathed his sword and turned away.

He could do much worse, betray people much closer to him, commit the most atrocious crime for Ferelden. He would turn on his own daughter, let the boy he had considered his son be ripped apart by darkspawn- he already had.

For Ferelden.

He would die, go to his end willingly- for Ferelden.

Just before opening the doors to the Hall where the Landsmeet was going to be held, a small wave of bitter regret flooded his heart; a feeling of resentment, a small spark of anger. He had given so much to Ferelden already...she had taken so much from him.

Maker, but Ferelden was a greedy, demanding bitch, wasn't she?


	7. Hawke & Leandra

**_I chose to use one of my most favourite characters for this, Gabriel Hawke from my deleted fic Be Careful what you Wish for, that can now be found on Archive of our Own. I could never sympathise with Leandra; I always thought of her as an insensitive callous bitch of a mother...yet, thinking of her, waiting for her death, hoping her son would rescue her somehow breaks my heart...so there you have it._**

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><p><strong><em>trigger warnings: character death, imminent threat of torture.<em>**

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><p><em>He will come. He will come for me. He will. <em>

It became a mantra, a desperate prayer to push away the fear and despair, the dread this place caused her, the threat of her imminent death.

_He will come. My beautiful baby boy, with his bright smile and his handsome eyes. He will come. He must_.

A painting hang on the far wall- her own face, and yet not her own. Subtle differences; a slightly weaker chin, a higher brow, a nose that was just an idea too wide to be hers. She drew her eyes forcefully away. It gave her chills, just like this dismal place did. Just like the light that had come into the eyes of the man that had brought her here while he was gazing at it did. That half-crazed, adoring look that might have been adorable if madness didn't lurk behind it like a feral beast.

She swallowed heavily, trying to settle the nausea rolling in her stomach and the bile rising to her throat. The man she had met so briefly, that had charmed her so effortlessly, had just sat there, stars in his love-sick eyes, drinking his tea in the most civilized manner, and told her of his 'research' and what he planned to do with her. Her eyes had been focused on that pinkie raised as he held his cup, thinking inanely how someone who appeared so...so refined could really be a monster in disguise. It made her sick to imagine it now, how he had prowled the streets all these years, sizing up every woman he met to find the...missing parts of _her_. Had he measured every woman's body like a butcher does his meat all these years? Had he looked at the offered hands of women with cold calculation in his eyes?

Had he rejoiced to see her face because it could be peeled off to take the place of _her_ face?

She shuddered wildly, repulsed down to her toes, and with strength renewed out of fear she tried the bonds holding her down on the sturdy wooden armchair again. It was no use. She was nothing but a frail old woman. She could not escape.

But her son would come. Her Gabriel would burst through that door any minute now, striding in with that commanding gait of his, smile brightly enough to shame the sun and hold her in his strong arms, cracking a lame joke to take her fear away. He would cut her bonds away, her charismatic baby boy that had grown to be such a strong man, and help her to her feet. And then...then he'd teach that monster what it felt like to scream and beg in terror until your voice gave up on you. A little malicious wave or rightful anger rose inside her. Gabriel would make sure that horrid man never hurt anyone again. He would ruin his plans, she was sure of it.

_He'll come. He's on his way already, I'm sure if it_, she desperately thought, trying to convince herself, trying to calm herself, using the image of her son as a buffer against the terror of this dreary place, where even the stench of death and madness permeated the air, where even the walls seemed to bleed with the memory of past suffering. The very air around her seemed heavy and stifling, as if a scream of terror and pain was still echoing- it pressed down on her, making her every breath laboured.

_Gabriel will come. He's on his way. Hush, you stupid woman. Your son won't let you die._

She tried to focus away of those dismal thoughts, another shudder wracking her. Gathering her strength, she closed her eyes, and willed herself to think of times past, of happier memories, trying desperately to make her heart beat like something that didn't resemble the heart of a scared, trapped bird. Memories and recollections came flooding in: the sunshine filtering through the high windows of the Amell mansion, illuminating her mother's gentle face as she bent over her embroidery, a halo of light around her head. Her brother's antics, that frustrated her parents but always made her smile. Her first formal ball, a silk gown that flowed on her body like water sweeping down to the floor. The first time she raised startled eyes to the face of the young man that would later become her husband, and his bright smile as he helped her to her feet, she herself blushing wildly after the tumble she had taken down the Chantry stairs. Their first kiss, so sweet, so hesitant. The first time she had snuck away in the middle of the night to be with him, her fear and excitement and the giddiness of new love.

The first time she had realised she couldn't possibly live without her dashing mage, and the breathless 'yes' that had just fallen out of her mouth when he had asked her to run away with him. Their first night sleeping under the stars together, him free for the first time and her almost petrified with fear, almost broken-hearted with her parents' rejection- and not really giving a damn as long as she had Malcolm's love.

Gabriel's first indignant cries after hours of excruciating pain, and the first time she had laid eyes on the miracle their love had created. A little smile curled her lips as she remembered, as the memory of that ridiculous tuft of dark hair that was sticking straight up on his little head flooded her mind. And then he had opened his eyes and she had gasped, because she had never seen eyes that pale on another human being before, so milky gray that for a moment she had been afraid her baby had been born blind.

The smile widened a little on her face, despite the fear that was still crippling her as she continued to remember- Gabriel's first toothless smile, and those adorable dimples she had fallen immediately in love with bracketing his rosebud mouth.

Kisses of an angel, Malcolm had said, laying a kiss on their son's head.

Her twins being born, her tiny babies, barely larger than the trembling hands that Malcolm had put out to hold them as they came out into the world, one by one, minutes apart. Her rebellious little Carver and her beautiful Bethany...but no. She would not think of the children she had lost, not here, not now. She couldn't- she had to be strong. Her one remaining child would come through this door any minute now, and she had to show him she was strong, she had to make him proud, like he had since the day he had been born.

But memory didn't obey rules, and once that portal had been opened other memories flooded in, the sweet ones mixing with the bitter ones, creating a maelstrom of emotion that threatened to make her break down and start sobbing. Carver- so handsome, so mulish and stubborn, so resentful of a big brother he both adored and begrudged for always being so effortlessly, instinctively loveable. Gabriel ruffling his hair with a fond smile on his face and calling him a pest. The fights and the sibling rivalry, the shouting and the scowling mixed in with memories of Carver trailing his brother like a puppy and begging him to play ball. Bethany running her hand through Gabriel's hair and telling him to smile for her, because she was feeling sad after having to leave another house in the middle of the night to protect her- and nothing could lift her spirits like one of Gabriel's smiles.

Her tender-hearted, soft-spoken little girl...so brave and so afraid. So near and so out of her reach. Just a stone throw's away from them, and they couldn't see her, couldn't hold her- her baby girl, locked in a prison, away from the sunshine she loved so much.

Carver...her brave baby boy, so recklessly throwing himself in front of that monstrous ogre to protect her life. A trail of blood marring his handsome face as he lay broken on the ground...Gabriel's gray eyes darkening to a stormy gray with pain as she- his own mother- had turned to him and accused him of being responsible.

A gasp escaped her. She would never forgive herself for lashing out in her pain like that, for the anguish that had widened her son's eyes at her words, for the way his head had lowered with regret. And yet, her boy had never blamed her for it, never held it against her. He had picked himself up, running his hand through his baby brother's hair for the last time, and did what he had to do to keep them all safe, with a smile on his face. It was a bitter, fake smile, but he'd stubbornly kept it up, had ruthlessly pushed them all forward, cracking jokes to make his sister smile.

If her son came- when he came, she would beg his forgiveness, she decided at that instance, she would get on her knees and plead with him to forgive her. What kind of a mother was she, heaping all that guilt on her son's shoulders, not even acknowledging everything her son had done to make her happy? She had even blamed Bethany's imprisonment on him, even thought he hadn't taken his sister to the Deep Roads after her own insistence.

When her son got here...

"It is time, Leandra," a cold voice echoed behind her, freezing her with dread.

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><p>The next time she opened her eyes, she was dying. She knew it, even before the mage in her son's party softly explained that there was nothing he could do, that it was Quentin's magic that was keeping her alive. Her body...was not her own, which was a blessing, as she felt no pain, nothing but the pull of the other side on her fragmented soul.<p>

She blinked the fogginess in her eyes away, to see her son's bloodstained face, his gray eyes impossibly wide with dread and pain.

"Mother," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Oh, mama..."

"I knew you would come," she rasped, a voice not quite her own coming out of the patchwork of bodies her head was attached to.

"Don't I always?" Gabriel tried to offer her a tremulous smile. "Don't move mama, we'll find a way..."

"Don't fret darling." She wished she could control her borrowed arms to caress his face. "That man would have kept me here forever. At least now I'll be free. I'll get to see Carver again...and your father."

A wildly trembling hand swiped at the tears running down her son's face, before his strong arms wrapped around her, holding her close. "Tell them I miss them. Smack that pest upside the head for me."

"My little boy..." she choked, the call of the fade even stronger now, like invisible hands that were pulling her away. "My baby boy has become so strong. I love you, Gabriel. I have always been _so_ proud of you. You'll be all alone now...that's my only regret."

A kiss on her brow. "Don't worry about me, mama. I'll be fine."

"Smile for me."

A bright smile, although fake, his dimples flashing, while tears made his gray eyes shine like mercury.

It was the last thing she saw, and her last thought was that...it was a good way to go.


	8. Quentin

**This chapter was born froma conversation I had with my dear friend TaraF while I was writing the previous one. And suddenly, Quentin was talking in my head. I wrote this down within minutes, to be honest. **

**I blame TaraF for it.**

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><p><strong>Trigger warnings: suggested noncon, brainwashing, rape, and general creepiness**

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><p>Just a little more time, now, my love. We will soon be together again, and nothing will be able to separate us again, not even death.<p>

I have defeated death. I promised you I would and now I have. I would have defeated the Maker himself, my dove, for a chance to see your lovely face again, to hold you in my arms. I promised you that night, as you lay in my arms for the last time, that I would find you again, even if it took a thousand years, that we would be together again.

Soon, my treasure. Soon we will be together again. I have found you, piece by piece, your lovely, delicate hands, your beautiful body, as it was before your illness ravaged it. I have found your adorable toes and that swan-like neck of yours; all that was missing was your gorgeous face, and now I have that too.

How dare that woman that isn't you wear your face?

We will soon be together, my love, and nothing will ever separate us again, nothing will ever dare take you away from me again. I will hold your lily-white fingers in my hands again, and kiss that beautiful mouth of yours once more. We will be together, like we were always meant to be together. Do you remember, my love? Do you remember how you shied away from me before I showed you that you loved me like I loved you? Do you remember how happy we were? How tears filled your eyes every time you saw me? You loved me so much, just as I loved you. Once I had taught you we should always be together, and you stopped wishing to be free of the wonder of my love, we were so happy together.

We will be happy again, my dove, I promise you.

That woman that dares to smile with your lips, dares to turn your face to the sun...she will surely see the wisdom of giving your face up, once I explain to her of how much we loved each other. She will gladly surrender her life for our love.

Love is the strongest force in the world, my dove. It cannot be defeated.

Until we meet again, my precious love,

Quentin.


	9. Zevran and the Crows

**A rather cold and hessitating Warden, who doesnt romance Zevran and gets betrayed from him. **

**When friends let you down, for no reason at all, this is what happens.**

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><p><strong>trigger Warnings: major character death, angst<strong>.

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><p>'<em>Friends?'<em>

_He'd taken a look at her outstretched hand, his amber eyes unreadable, before he'd smiled his winsome, mischievous smile and nodded._

'_Why not my lovely Warden? Yes...friends.'_

She looked at him now, pain in her eyes, a million thoughts going through her head even as her hands tightened around the hilts of her daggers mechanically. Had he been pretending all that time? Had he opened up to her about his past with ulterior motives in his head? Had he... but such thoughts did her no good, not here- not now. Not ever. Zevran was who he was: a Crow, an assassin. She should never have trusted him, she should never have opened up to him.

She should never have loved him.

Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears as she looked at him one last time, standing near Taliesen. The Crow was speaking, telling Zevran not to be a fool, telling him to go back, cajoling him that they would make up a story to cover up for his failure to kill her.

"Of course, I would have to be dead, then," she softly said. She could swear Zevran's eyes softened with something like regret for a second, before he smiled cruelly.

"Yes," he drawled, his hands also flying to the hilts of his blades- the enchanted daggers she had given him. "You would have to be dead. Let us see if the second time around is the charm, hm?"

His laughter made something inside her curl up and die. Even as her dagger rose to block the first lightening fast strike, she kept looking into his eyes, those amber coloured eyes she had grown so fond of, the same ones that had those adorable lines creaking at their corners when he laughed.

Had all their jokes and jests- all the laughter- been for nothing? Had he kept his gaze focused to this moment in the future even as he'd laughed and shared stories by the campsite with her? The moment he would betray her?

A sudden thought went through her brain, numbing her with the hot flash of pain it brought along for a second. Would he have betrayed her if she had accepted him in her bed? If she hadn't been so afraid to admit to herself that she had fallen in love with him? If she'd let her cold, ruthless mask slip, just a little? Her grip on her dagger faltered, and his dagger nicked her arm, making blood well. A small triumphant smile curled his lips, and his eyes narrowed with cruel intent.

Something cracked in her chest even further, like breaking glass. Coldness spread down her body, freezing her down to her toes.

He really meant to kill her. _He really did_. Creators.

Her eyes watered, even as she raised her other dagger in an instinctive effort to block his thrust. One of his daggers was deflected, but the other one embedded itself in her belly with a sickening sound of rendering flesh.

It didn't hurt, not yet. It felt cold, as if a sliver of ice had found its way into her gut. It would start hurting in a minute, she knew, but she was too shocked to feel it right now. She looked down, incredulous, to see his hand being drenched in her blood.

The pain came as he twisted the blade.

She didn't scream. To her honour, she didn't scream. She just gasped, the pain suddenly strong enough to paralyze her brain. She drew in a gurgled breath, then looked into his eyes, her own crystalline blue eyes wide open with pain and shock.

"Why?" she just whispered. "Zev..._Why_?" She thought she saw his amber, cat-like eyes widen at the question, she thought she saw regret flash in their depths. Before everything went black, he thought she heard him whisper an apology.

Maybe though, she was just imagining things.

She came to with Wynn's worried face above her and pushed to her feet, still disoriented and still feeling as if her gut had been set on fire. She pressed a widely trembling hand on her aching midriff then stumbled as she looked around her; all her companions were alive. All the Crows were dead.

Her Crow was dead too.

She limped to his side, then knelt down. The movement made something in her gut scream and protest, momentarily making her mind fog with a searing flash of agony. She ignored it, and stretched out a wildly trembling hand to brush away a bloodstained lock of golden hair away from Zevran's face.

"Alistair saved you," Leliana whispered. "It was lucky he was so close."

"Yes," she agreed, her eyes still focused on the face of the elven assassin. He looked to be so peaceful in death, merely sleeping. His face had softened to that of a young man that hadn't lived a life of misery and torment, who hadn't been taught from an early age not to trust in anyone and not to be something that anyone could trust. Her fingers traced the sweeping line of his tattoo on his temple. "Lucky."

"Did he know?" Leliana asked softly. "Had you told him?"

"No," tears flooded her eyes. "I was going to...tonight."

A hand landed on her shoulder, tightened for a few seconds, before the Orlesian bard stepped away respectfully, giving her time to say her goodbyes. Behind her, she could hear Alistair muttering darkly that he had never trusted that damned blighted assassin and he'd been right not to. Something made the ex templar stop mid-sentence and she was aware of being grateful for it in some corner of her mind. Her eyes focused unblinkingly on that of the blond assassin, she vaguely registered Alistair's pained yelp as he started hopping around on one foot.

"Shush, you foolish boy," she heard Wynn mutter to the ex-templar that had started complaining that she had surprisingly heavy feet for her size. "Shush. Don't make me kick you in the shin, as well."

"What?Why? What did I s...oh. _OH_. Oh, I'm sorry."

"Be sorry in silence, you fool."

"Alright."

She sighed. The silence that fell behind her was even more intrusive than their careless talk. It felt like a monster's breath behind her, heavy, oppressive, watching her, judging her. Telling her what a fool she had been; a fool twice, three times over: first trusting the Crow, then falling for him, and now falling _to_ him.

Had he really hesitated before slamming that dagger in her gut? Had he really uttered that apology, or was it wishful thinking from that romantic, head-over-heels in love little girl she had buried so deep inside her?

She would never know.

She sighed, and then her hand landed on his forehead, caressing his face in a barely there touch, smoothing over those handsome features and closing his eyes as well as it did so. It was their first caress, the first one she had initiated, and their last.

She sighed again. Pain and regret, regret and pain, dancing inside her heart, twirling around faster and faster, making her stomach roll.

She breathed the words for the departed over him, so softly that perhaps no words were really heard. Then her featured hardened, tightening to the steely mask that she wore as effortlessly as her armour, and she rose to her feet.

"Take his armour and his weapons," she told her companions as she went by them, her gait as determined and ruthless as always, her voice steady. "That Dragonhide armour is expensive."

"What should we do with his body?" Alistair asked timidly behind her back. "Should we...you know...bury him? Or give him a pyre?"

She didn't even turn back. To her companions, her back was as ramrod-straight as always, her shoulders thrown back with determination. Her head was held up high, and her gait never faltered. "No," she said, not turning back, because tears were running down her face, and she wanted nobody to see. "No." Her voice was steady, unwavering, even as all the pain in her heart drained in helpless tears down her cheeks.

"No," she repeated for the last time, her voice hardening even more. "There's no time."

As she walked away she heard the sound of metal clanking behind her- her companions were stripping Zevran of his armour. She lowered her head as she rounded the corner, and a gloved hand wiped the tears off her face. One deep breath later, she was composed again.

It was over, her childish, repressed dream was over, and she had work to do. She had finally decided to let him know, to take a chance...she was going to tell him. She was going to take a chance and let him know he had won her heart a long time ago. She had been scared, terrified of opening up, but she was going to, this night. Something cracked inside her, and she brought her hand to her heart, trying to keep it in, feeling as if pieces of her heart would start tumbling to the ground any minute now.

But she had to stay strong. That was who she was. Strong. Ruthless if she had to. Always ready to make the hard decisions nobody else wanted to make. Always getting the job done."A Warden does what a Warden must do", she whispered to herself. _And a Crow does what a Crow knows best...betray...kill. Die_.

Above her, crows gave their mournful cries as the circled above the rooftops. She spared them one look before going on, the steps of her companions rushing up to catch up with her.

She cringed as the birds descended in the now abandoned little square and a chill ran down her spine as their squalling cries increased in volume. Crows were feasting, this afternoon, and she knew- she would never again hear that sound without cringing.

"We should have buried him," Alistair winced next to her. "Or burned him."

"Leave him to the crows," the firm, gleaming eyes of the Warden pinned him with a hard, cruel look. He thought he saw her eyes soften with pain for a moment, but it was gone so fast, he was left there thinking he had imagined it. She looked back, and her gaze hardened again, to the one of their ruthless, effective leader.

"He was theirs all along."

Inside her chest, her heart made a weird little flutter, protesting, but she clamped on the regret, and didn't let it show. She clenched her teeth and her fists, and ordered her ears to stop listening to the fading squawking of the crows.

Alistair saw- and he said nothing. But his steps were a little heavier, his armoured grieves clanking a little too loudly for the usually softly treading man. He started yapping on, telling her some absurd little tale from his Chantry days.

She half-listened, for once grateful for the noise and his insistent yammering.

It was over- Zevran was dead.

And she had work to do.


End file.
